Disclaimer: This work of fiction was inspired by the 2009 Warner Bros. film The Hangover. As you can guess, the summary for this story is a modification of the film's tagline, Some guys just can't handle Vegas. No copyright infringement is intended, just good lighthearted fun.

Prologue

A broken pair of glasses lay amidst the rubble that was formally a luxury suite in the famous Hilton Hotel. A distant, muffled, off-key chime of a broken clock striking midday rung through the wasteland as the sun streamed through the shredded curtains.

The kitchen-come-dining-room looked as if a hungry troll had stormed through with a couple of friends looking for a feed only to find nothing and throw a rave instead. The cupboard doors were hanging off their hinges, the glasses inside either smashed on the titles or lying dangerously close to the shelf ledge. The counter was covered without an inch to spare with bottles, open packets of crisps and, strangely enough, a man in a pink feather boa slumped across the marble surface, blood pooling slightly near the split on his lip as he drooled in his slumber. The dining table had a small niffler dozing peacefully on top of it next to a set of shiny silver car keys with a small, sparkling Weird Sisters key ring and a nametag announcing the wear as FRANK.

In the next room, the muggle plasma television had been pushed off its table—which was missing a leg and now leaning threateningly to the left side—onto the floor and a lanky ginger haired was curled up in its place, completely naked and covered only by a bath towel across his feet, snoring lightly. The ornate lounges, previously pristine and glamorous, were overturned and their classy, thick fabric ripped, their foam innards spilling out onto the hotel room floor. Scorch marks stained the cream carpet at odd points; some still smoking slightly, while wet patches smelling strongly of alcohol covered the rest. End tables were reduced to charred splinters on the floor and the mirror above the elaborate fireplace had “JUST MARRIED” written across it in large, cursive letters with bright red lipstick.

Out on the balcony, the Jacuzzi powered on loudly, it’s bulky redheaded occupant leaning heavily on a blow-up doll as he slept. The tiled floor was littered with plastic cups, more bottles, shining in the midday sun, and a can tower which swayed ominously in the light breeze. The barrier was decorated with toilet paper, which was twirled around the railing like ribbons on a May Day pole, and the entire thing glowed a bright, vibrant orange, glittering in a way only that which is enchanted does.

While the bedroom and adjoining en suite seemed to be untouched—perhaps the complicated motion of using a door handle saved it—behind the bathroom door which joined the lounge room, there could be a distant huffing heard, the faint tap like hoofs against tile. The door itself looked to be barely holding on to its hinges; with a significant hole blasted through the middle and surrounded with smaller dents and chips, it was a wonder it held up at all. A little ways away, at the cupboard near the entrance hallway, a small, ominous sound gurgles with delight behind the wall.

And somewhere, the groan of a man confronting his hangover could be heard.